Rebirth
by rita hayworth
Summary: "We're going to be amazing parents," he begins slowly. "Real or not real?" My fears begin to wash away. Peeta's right, of course. "Real," I tell him, as my lips curve upwards. A Peeta/Katniss pregnancy one-shot. Post-Mockingjay.


**A/N: **This is my first Hunger Games fic, so please review and tell me what you thought!

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><p><strong>Rebirth<strong>

A dozen scenarios race through my head as I stare at the ground. How to tell him. How he'll react. The news won't be…unwelcomed to him, but he'll see the uncertainty displayed clearly on my face—I've never been able to lock my emotions away—and he'll hesitate.

Peeta's made his stance on children clear; he wants them. He's never harassed me or pressured me in anyway—he says he's perfectly happy without them—but at this point in our lives I know him so well. He's perfectly happy right now, with me, but the joy of a child will fill him a different kind of happiness.

I have no doubt that Peeta will become an amazing father. In a way, I see a lot of my own father in him—his steadfastness, his unflinching loyalty. My uncertainty lies not with him but with myself. Do I have the capacity to care for a child? If I fail them—If I disappoint them—I don't even want to consider their thoughts towards me.

Peeta returns from his bakery in the evening. He finds me sitting in the same place he left me, mulling over the same thoughts that have been running through my mind since I found out about my pregnancy. _I have to tell him. _

Peeta sits down beside me on the couch, the weight of his strong body pushing the cushions down. He unties his boots, slowly peeling the heavy shoes and socks off his feet. In the light, I can still see faint burn marks etched across his foot. He looks up, his vexing blue eyes meeting mine, and smiles. I return it, but it's faint, and Peeta can tell that something's up. So he wraps a comforting arm around my shoulder. He offers no words, nor does he ask what's troubling me. But he doesn't need to. In the sixteen years since the Hunger Games, Peeta's presence never fails to calm me. I am still afraid of the child inside of me, but it's a muted fear.

I jump up suddenly, as a wave of nausea overcomes my body. My morning sickness has stretched into the evening, but most of the time I've been able to conceal it from Peeta. Now it's obvious. Now he'll know.

"Sick?" he asks, glancing up from his perch on the couch as I exit the bathroom. I nod my head, confirm his inquiry.

I hesitate to tell him. I know that once I make the announcement, he'll offer nothing but comfort. And it will make me feel better. But once I speak those words, it means that this is real. The child inside of me is _real_. And I'm not sure if I'm ready for that yet.

But I close my eyes as I sit down next to him, readying myself. I have to tell him now—it wouldn't be fair to keep such a large secret from. To keep his child from him. "Peeta," I begin slowly, my eyes still closed. I'm not sure if I can bear looking into his eyes, seeing the happiness in them while I can return nothing but apprehension. "I'm not sick."

Suddenly, his hand covers mine. It's warm, but not clammy. It's a hand I know well. My eyes jolt open and unexpectedly I'm looking into his. He looks concerned about my wellbeing. Even after all these years, I still don't deserve him.

But I have to try.

"I'm pregnant." My voice is stronger than I thought it would be. My resolve is growing. Peeta inhales sharply, and his grip tightens on my hand. This is all he's wanted.

Still, he hesitates. I'm expecting it, because I've never been a great supporter of parenthood. My entire life, I've never wanted kids. And now I have one growing inside. It's odd…I'm scared, of course, but since I've known about my pregnancy, I haven't felt any ill-will towards the baby. I care for it, I realize. Not exactly because I want to be a mother, but because it's Peeta's child. It's my child. It's _our_ child.

"This is amazing, Katniss," he says slowly. I know he's gauging my reaction, waiting to see what I say, how I feel about the situation. Gradually, his free hand stretches toward my stomach. I'm not showing yet, obviously, but there is something inside of me. An odd feeling overcomes me when his hand connects with my stomach, but I can't place it. It's not a happy feeling, nor is it sad. It's something I've never felt before. And I like it.

I nod my head as a smile steadily spreads across my face. I feel whole, sitting next to Peeta, his hand atop our child.

"We're going to be parents," says Peeta. There's joy, easily detected, in his voice. He's so infectious that it spreads to me, and suddenly I realize what I'm feeling. The feeling that's been growing inside of me is motherly.

xxx

Peeta suggests that we start preparing for the child, but I resist. I tell him that I'm only six weeks along, and we should wait a few months. He insists that by that time, I should be resting up. Preparing to go into labor, not preparing a nursery. So I relent. He's right, like usual.

We paint the nursery yellow. The color of dandelions. On one wall, Peeta paints an elaborate mural of the Meadow. Hues of green, blue, and yellow combine to create a perfect depiction of the place where Gale and I found so much solace.

I find comfort in the nursery. My anxiety is slowly depleting, but there's a little bit which will remain, I think, until I give birth. It manages to stay away while Peeta's around, but when he goes to the bakery or retreats to the basement to paint, it returns. Yet when I go to the nursery, it lessens. I decide that it's because the nursery reminds me so much of Peeta, from the dandelion color to the mural.

When Peeta returns home, he's knows that I'll be in the nursery. I had confessed my apprehension about children, the fear I have of parenting because of the world we were raised in.

"Remember, Katniss," he had reminded me patiently. "We live in a different world now. A safer one."

He's right, of course. There's no more Hunger Games, nothing that would threaten our child. So I don't know why I'm so scared.

"I have something to show you," he says upon returning home one day. His eyes are excited as he beckons me down to the basement. I rarely every go there—it's Peeta's retreat, where he finds calm, much like I do in the nursey—so his invitation comes as a surprise to me.

Elaborate canvasses, covered with colorful depictions, cover the walls. They switch out every time he gets inspired for a new set of paintings, but none of the paintings look new to me. Idly, I wonder why he's taken me down here.

Peeta walks towards the back of the basement while I stand in the doorway, unsure of what he wants me to do. His back is turned, and he's fiddling with a painting that I can't quite make out.

When he turns around, smiling broadly, I finally see the painting. It's of the two of us, holding a baby girl. We're surrounded by trees, smiling down at the young girl. I don't have to look hard to realize that we're in the meadow.

It's such a heartfelt painting that I can't stop the tears forming at the corners of my eyes. Peeta painted this, knowing how it would comfort me. His unfailing tenderness never ceases to amaze me. His big heart, despite all that we've been through, never stops growing.

"We're going to be amazing parents," he begins slowly as he walks towards me. "Real or not real?"

Even though he's regained his grasp on reality in the past fifteen years, he'll still occasionally ask me that question. He uses it when he wants to get a message across, to tell me something important.

My fears wash away. Peeta's right—we will be amazing parents. _I_ will be an amazing mother. "Real," I tell him, as my lips curve upwards into a delighted smile.


End file.
